A Spark of Hope
by PrairieLily
Summary: When a secret becomes too heavy for Molly's heart to bear, she makes a confession to Greg. Established Mollstrade, post-Reichenbach Fall, pre-Empty Hearse. Characters do not belong to me, no copyright infringement is intended. Two new chapters added as my alternate take/expansion on two particular canon scenes in The Empty Hearse. Yes, it's really complete now...!
1. Chapter 1

Greg Lestrade strolled into his flat, shared now with Molly Hooper in the wake of Sherlock's death, and tossed his keys onto the small table in the doorway. Smiling to himself for who and what he knew awaited him, as they did most days, he hung his coat in the closet and kicked off his shoes.

As he made his way into the sitting room, however, his smile slowly faded, morphing into an expression of deep concern.

"Molly? Sweetheart, what's wrong?" he asked, knowing immediately that something wasn't right with her.

For a few moments, Molly seemed not to hear him. Suddenly, she seemed to stir from her own thoughts, and turned to look up at him.

"You know we've no secrets, Darling," Molly said quietly, almost meekly. Greg sensed something ominious from her tone and her words. Swallowing hard, he averted his gaze a moment, before sitting down next to her.

Molly, sitting in the corner of the sofa, had her knees drawn up, as if she had been thinking about something deeply shameful and needing an incredible amount of understanding and forgiveness.

"Of course we've no secrets... so then just tell me Molly," he urged her, gently, shifting himself close to her. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, as if bracing herself for disastrous action and the heartbreaking consequences, Molly looked at him briefly, making eye contact. Quickly, she broke it as she unfolded herself.

"Ever since we got together, Greg," she started softly, "I've known this would come. It had to. We can't be US if we have secrets. It could never work and I want so badly for us to work. Oh Greg," she said, her voice beginning to crack, "I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love ANYONE. Including Sherlock."

Greg nodded slowly, trying to keep up. He knew Molly loved him, she'd never made it a secret, just as he'd never made the fact that he loved her equally a secret.

"Molly love," Greg said gently, "we all miss him. I miss him too, he was the worst pain in the ass I've ever encountered, but he was a special pain in the ass. Like the son I never wanted but ended up with anyway," he chuckled sadly. "We all loved him, in our own ways," he reflected, reaching out to pull Molly into his arms.

Molly collapsed briefly, allowing Greg's embrace and the soft, lingering kiss he placed on her hair, to steel her for the inevitable. She savoured those moments, wondering if they might be the last of their kind. Finally, she decided, she had to just get the hell on with it.

"Sherlock… the fall… off St. Bart's," Molly said, her voice quivering. "It wasn't real. None of it was real. He's alive, Greg. It was all an elaborate hoax."

Greg paused, thinking while his hand continued to absently stroke her back comfortingly. The words had hit him in the chest like a battering ram, and for a moment, he found it hard to breathe as his mind began to struggle through shock to grasp what she was telling him. "Molly, sweetheart what are you saying?" he said slowly and deliberately, willing himself to remain calm and collected enough to properly hear what she had to say.

Molly pulled back from him, staring at his lap, studying the seams of his trousers, utterly unable to look the man she loved more than anything in the world in the eyes.

"Sherlock's suicide was faked. I have no idea where he is now, darling, please you MUST believe me when I say that. But I was drawn into the whole thing when I offered to help before any of it even began. Nobody else knows," she continued, anticipating what Greg would next ask. "Only myself and Mycroft and a handful of Sherlock's homeless network."

"Right, then," Greg said, still confused, but his the shock beginning to wear off, replaced by his heart aching for Molly's fear. Pulling her closer to him still, he tightened his arms around her, hoping that she would understand he wasn't going anywhere, no matter what else she had to confess to.

"Why? Molly love, Sherlock wouldn't go to this extent for no reason. Even HE isn't this much of an adrenaline junkie to go to this sort of trouble. There's a lot more to it, isn't there? Tell me, PLEASE," he said, pulling back slightly and placing a hand on her face.

Finally bringing her gaze up to look Greg in the eyes, she finished her confession.

"Moriarty blackmailed him. He told him that if he didn't kill himself, his closest friends would die that very moment. Apparently Moriarty had snipers in place. They were under orders…" Molly's voice broke momentarily, before she regained composure. "They were under orders to kill the only three people Moriarty believed meant anything in the world to him. John, Mrs. Hudson, and you."

Greg's heart nearly skipped a beat. "Me?" he asked.

"Yes. Three gunmen, three bullets, three crosshairs, and Sherlock's only three friends in the world. The only three who meant anything to him at all. And if he didn't throw himself off the roof of St. Bart's, and be seen to be doing so, you, John, and Mrs. Hudson would all die within minutes."

Greg brought a free hand up, running it through his silvering hair. At this point, he wasn't sure which had thown him for a loop more – the revelation that Sherlock was still alive, or the revelation that he had come within mere moments of being murdered for kicks simply because he had meant that much to Sherlock.

He sat for several minutes, absorbing what he'd just been told, as he continued to hold Molly closely.

"Sherlock's friends… there were more than three, love. There was you as well. I mean… there IS you. Oh bollocks. That bastard, what the hell has he done…?" Greg muttered to himself.

"Well, that was key to the plan. In order for me to assist in faking his death, to forge the post mortem documentation, Moriarty had to completely disregard me as Sherlock's friend. He had to look at me as irrelevant and unimportant."

"I see," Greg finally said, pulling Molly fully back into his arms. "So Sherlock is still alive, somewhere, and you've just told me everything you know about it to this point," he summarized softly, as he rested his face against her hair, his mouth next to her ear. "There's one other thing I really need to know though, Molly love," he said, turning his face to press a firm kiss to her temple.

Molly's breath caught. She HAD just told him everything, now she worried he no longer trusted her, and her potential inability to answer what he needed to know next might spell the end of the best thing to ever happen to her.

"What's for dinner, because I'm bloody FAMISHED," he asked lightly, as Molly held her breath, suddenly letting it out in a rush.

"Shepherd's pie, actually," Molly said softly. "Greg… I've just told you that…"

"Yes," Greg stopped her. "You've just told me something that was never meant to be revealed to anyone else, because you love me and you know that I love you, and you needed to be open and honest." Greg smiled at her reassuringly. "It's a job requirement of Scotland Yard coppers to keep their pie holes shut when it comes to cases. Need to know, you know? And you felt I needed to know, so now I do. I can't guarantee I'll not call him dirty filthy names when he comes back someday, but I CAN guarantee that nobody else will ever know about this."

"Not even John?" Molly asked, meekly. "Because he's shattered. Oh my God, Greg, watching John breaks me. He's so lost," she said, her voice breaking as the tears began to flow in earnest. "I could fix all of that grief, I could erase the pain with three little words, but… I can't. I promised. And every time I look at John I hate myself for making that promise. John has lost the only true best friend he has ever really known, the man he has loved as a brother with all of his heart. And I can't tell him that Sherlock isn't really dead."

"One day," Greg said, bringing his hand up to run through her hair, cradling her head, "John will know as well that Sherlock is alive. But in the meantime, we help him to cope as best we can. Grief only needs a spark of hope to survive through. You've been my spark of hope all this time, so now, we'll be John's. He won't know why, but we will be. I promise, my beautiful girl."

Molly took a deep breath again, letting it out in a rush of relief. After her confession, the knots in her belly had let themselves loose, and suddenly she found herself to be ravenously hungry.

"I love you, Greg Lestrade," she finally said, gazing up at him. Greg noticed immediately the relief in her brown eyes. "I think dinner is nearly ready, if you are."

"More than ready, Love, it smells bloody fantastic," he said, rising to his feet and offering his hand to help her up. Smiling down at her, he only hoped she understood that he understood. He brought his hand up to stroke her face, and leaned down, drawing her into a kiss of the utmost tender passion, meant purely to convey to her that nothing between them had changed for her confession, nor would it at any time.

A spark of hope was all she really needed, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Approximately two years later…_**

Greg Lestrade walked through the car park, en route to his vehicle. On the way, he stopped, pulling out a pack of nicotine gum. He paused as he heard a noise, his senses suddenly on high alert.

"It's about time you stopped smoking, Graham. Those things would have killed you, you know," came the unmistakable baritone voice, echoing slightly in the expanse of the car park.

Greg started momentarily, before sighing heavily. Trust HIM to make such a dramatic re-entrance.

"Who?" he asked, unable to stop the beginnings of a grin in the corners of his mouth.

"Alright, FINE," the deep voice said with an exasperated and melodramatic sigh. "GREG. I know, it's GREG," Sherlock said, coming out of the shadows.

Greg glared at him, before shaking his head slowly, allowing the smile to fully take shape.

"Oh, don't be an idiot, Lestrade. I've always known it's Greg. I just… couldn't help myself I suppose. I couldn't possibly let it slip that you actually MEANT something to me, could I? I DO have a reputation to uphold."

"Oh, YOU BASTARD!" Greg declared, as he threw his arms around his suddenly returned consulting pain in the ass.

Sherlock, relieved at how easily that seemed to go, brought his arms up to return the hug, surprising himself with how tightly he found himself embracing the Detective Inspector.

"And throwing yourself off the roof of St. Bart's to save my life wasn't supposed to indicate to me that I meant something to you? At least as much as Mrs. Hudson and John do?"

Sherlock broke the embrace, standing back to gaze at his friend. "Ah, good. Molly told you then? That makes this SO much easier."

"Wait," Greg said, as he motioned Sherlock to follow him to his car. "You mean Molly didn't mention that she told me? Or you simply haven't been in contact?"

Sherlock sighed softly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff. "The latter, rather than the former, I'm afraid. No, I've been… out of communications range for quite some time. In fact I haven't spoken to Molly since the day of my… well, my death. With my departure from London to begin dismantling Moriarty's network, as you might imagine, time was of the essence, and remaining here a moment longer than was strictly necessary when London was supposed to believe I was dead seemed foolhardy. I was in contact merely to say goodbye, and to thank her for everything she'd put in peril for my sake."

Greg simply nodded at this. "I see," he said.

"It was a damned good snog, I must say. I'm not really one for a good snog, or any snog for that matter. But that one was… glorious. Even I know that. If you're wondering, it was I who initiated it, and you are a very lucky man, indeed."

Greg paused at that, wondering how on earth he could have known… then again, he was Sherlock Holmes. Of bloody course he knew. "Yes, she did mention a goodbye kiss, and yes that it was you who kissed her. Something about you crashing through the window… you always were a bit too theatrical for your own good."

"Sherlock," Greg said suddenly, his voice taking on the lower notes it occasionally did when he was dead serious. "I hope you know… in spite of the glimmer of doubt Donovan and Anderson tried to plant in my own mind… I never truly believed you were a fraud. I did what I could for you but… well, my hands were tied, really. In the end, my old copper's gut just wouldn't let me believe what I was being told."

Sherlock nodded slowly at this, turning to his old friend to smile briefly in his way. "The three people Moriarty would have killed always would have believed wholly in my innocence. You are one of those people, thereby I know you knew better. You may be an idiot but you're not stupid," he winked. "You're clever enough in your own ways."

"Might I ask a small favour, Greg?" Sherlock suddenly asked, pausing in their short journey to the car and turning to his friend. "I haven't spoken to Molly just yet, but I know she's at work… I don't suppose you might give me a lift to St. Bart's?"

"You're asking, rather than simply demanding. You've been humbled, my friend. Not by much mind you, but just enough to make your manners kick in." Greg turned to gaze upon the younger man, a grim expression shadowing his face. "I don't think I want to know what's happened to you to cause that," he said. He studied the younger man for a few moments, noting the new world-weary lines around his eyes, which could not possibly have been the result of the passage of a mere two years, and a few scars that hadn't been there the last time he'd seen him alive. He motioned to Sherlock to continue with him to the vehicle, unlocking it once in range of the fob. "Go on, you know the way to the passenger seat," he said casually.

"It's good to be back, Greg," Sherlock said, pausing with his hand on the car door's handle. "I mean it. I've missed you. I've missed my friends. My family. You are, in case you wonder, one and the same."

Greg smiled at this, nodding in acknowledgement.

They rode in silence for a few minutes, Greg navigating his way through London towards St. Bart's, Sherlock's gaze focused on the city they rode through, drinking in every detail he could. Finally, Greg broke the silence.

"It's good to have you back. Molly will be a cakewalk. Mrs. Hudson might drift you one with a saucepan, which you might just richly deserve. John doesn't know, by the way. Oh, and he's met someone, just so you know."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked, curious, turning to look at Greg.

"Her name is Mary Morstan. She's a nurse at the surgery John is working at as a GP. I wouldn't be surprised if he asks her to marry him soon." Greg paused as he came to a stop at an intersection, waiting for his turn to proceed through. "Sherlock… Molly decided that because we didn't know when or even if you'd be returning to London, well, she judged it better for John to simply not tell him you were alive. So be prepared for a bad reaction."

"You mean, be prepared to be punched, called impolite names, punched again… possibly being tackled and having the shit kicked out of me… noted, thank you. I assure you I've endured much worse in my time away than a few left-handed crosses from my best friend."

"Noted," Greg simply said with a small grin, as he turned to park his car at St. Bart's.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly Hooper made her way to her locker, taking a deep breath as she approached it. It had been a very long day, and she was glad to have it over and done with.

As she stopped in front of the locker door, she paused to gaze down at her left hand, now sporting a diamond. She smiled at it as she reached up with her right hand to open the door, thinking to herself how very much she was looking forward to a quiet evening at home with Greg.

She looked up suddenly as her peripheral vision caught movement in the mirror mounted to the inside of her locker door. She gasped then smiled as a familiar chiseled face with familiar unruly black curls and distinctive tri-coloured eyes appeared to her. Spinning around, she looked at him, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Sherlock smiled at her as her left hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh, SHERLOCK!" she cried, as she threw herself at him. Expecting the reaction, he opened his arms, embracing her tightly.

"That's a much more polite greeting than I got from Lestrade," he commented lightly.

"Called you a bastard, didn't he?" Molly laughed, giving him a final tight squeeze before pulling back to look at him at arm's length.

"Yes. But as my appearance was a bit impromptu, he reacted quite well, I must say, all things considered."

"Well, Greg is nothing if not patient with certain fools," Molly said, raising an eyebrow.

"Indeed. And that is a very fortunate thing for me," Sherlock retorted lightly.

"Oh, let me LOOK at you," she said happily, bringing her hands up to hold her friend's face. "Oh, I've MISSED you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!"

"The feeling is mutual, Molly Hooper. My time away was… difficult. At times I merely judged myself lucky to get out alive. But for as focused as I was on my mission, always, I missed London, missed you, and Mrs. Hudson, and John, and Greg."

"Some of these scars are from barely healed wounds," Molly observed, quietly, as she touched some of the angrier marks on his face. "I see a blackened eye that has just now finished healing as well. And one arm isn't as strong as the other. It was broken at one point, perhaps as recently as a couple of months ago, wasn't it, and you lost muscle tone as it healed."

"Mycroft found me and pulled me out with not a moment to spare," Sherlock said quietly. He cleared his throat, pausing several moments. "My mission had been accomplished, but that final operation was a little too close for comfort. As always my brother had my back, even if I don't' always think so, in truth, I suppose he does."

"I had your back as well, Sherlock. Of those who knew when you left what had really happened the day you died, only Greg found out later on. I couldn't keep it from him. Oh Sherlock I'm so sorry… I just couldn't bear to keep it from him…"

"A wise decision, Molly," Sherlock observed, taking her left hand. "I see the two of you have reached a new level in your relationship. I'm glad for it. No doubt it's benefitted the both of you greatly."

"How did you know this was from Greg?" Molly asked, glancing down at her engagement ring with a wistful expression she couldn't help.

"Obvious, really. You don't wear perfume on the job, but you do have a scent about your neck and shoulders, which I detected when I hugged you. It's Lestrade's signature cologne, the scent of which I was reminded of less than an hour ago when he hugged me in the car park. After he called me a bastard, of course."

"Of course," Molly laughed softly. "Welcome back, Sherlock. Be prepared to duck when you reveal yourself to Mrs. Hudson. But with John, I suggest you brace yourself to take what's coming to you, because he isn't likely to welcome you back as warmly as Greg and I have."

"I would expect no less of John," Sherlock said. "He's a soldier, and a doctor. He can break every bone in my body whilst naming them, or so he's pointed out in the past. I've no doubt he'll have a strong impulse to do just that."

"Well, no time like the present then, you silly sod," Molly commented lightly, slapping his arm gently. "Go on now, go take what's coming to you."

"I see Lestrade is already wearing off on you," Sherlock said. "Sod indeed…" he said, as he turned to kiss Molly's cheek before leaving her. Already, he was preparing himself to reveal himself to the two other people he loved enough to put his life on hold for two years for.

 _"Mrs. Hudson is right handed, therefore, if I were to duck to my own right, the impact of her Cuisinart saucepan may inflict minimal damage,"_ he was already mentally analyzing the speed and trajectory of her cookware being swung at his body.

As Molly approached the door to leave the building to meet Greg, her mobile toned with a text.

 _Well? ~G_

 _Been and gone. He's off to see Mrs. Hudson now. ~M_

 _Let's hope she hasn't been cooking with her cast iron skillet today then, shall we? ~G_

Molly giggled at this. In a short minute or two, she would meet Greg outside, and from there, they would head home to a restful evening, knowing that their prodigal consulting detective was home, and at long last, all would be right with their world.


End file.
